


an unknown child

by ncfan



Series: Lost Daughter [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awkward Conversations, First Meetings, Gen, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:52:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin meets his grandson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an unknown child

**Author's Note:**

> Written because, really, I feel like if Fingolfin knew he had a grandson, he would have wanted to see him at least once. Also keep in mind that this is Maeglin pre-corruption we're talking about.

The day was cold, crisp and clear with waning summer and waxing autumn; the leaves on trees were gold-gilt, the sky a pale, chilly blue with no clouds to mar it. Fingolfin stood at the base of the steps of the fortress at Barad Eithel, the wind blowing in his face as he watched the two riders draw ever nearer. He wasn't sure what to feel. It was as if the world was holding its breath.

He was glad to see that Turgon had chosen to honor the request that Fingolfin had made of him in his last latter. Fingolfin knew how easy it would have been for Turgon to refuse, for all too well did Fingolfin know the emphasis his second son (youngest surviving child) put upon the security of his hidden city, for all that it had cost them. But perhaps that was why he was making an exception now to his policy of allowing no one to leave his city. Because of what that rule had cost them. Fingolfin did not pretend to have insight into Turgon's mind. He could not say why his son acted the way he did.

' _The child is named Lómion, called Maeglin by his father. He is in his eightieth year, and much resembles you and Irissë, Father.'_

Child of the Twilight, she called him, a son born in the endless shadows, in the shadows that no light could pierce. The name, the name Aredhel gave her son was as much a wound as the blow that had killed her. Child of the Twilight, born in a world his mother could not escape from. Could he, even now that he dwelled in Gondolin?

The riders dismounted, handing the reins of their horses to a groom. One was golden-haired, and Fingolfin recognized him as Glorfindel, one of the lords of the Noldor who had been with Turgon's host since the Helcaraxë. The other was dark-haired, wearing dark clothes, and Fingolfin started down the steps, suddenly too impatient to wait for the riders to approach.

The wind blew, cold and fierce, as Fingolfin made his way ever nearer; he heard, as though from a great distance, the flags and pennants flapping in the wind. Glorfindel spotted him first and bowed low, his face rather pale for reasons that Fingolfin didn't quite understand. He remembered this one as bright and gay, ever smiling, always with something to say, but now he was silent and pale. The other was engrossed in conversation with the groom, speaking slightly accented Quenya with a quiet voice, and did not hear nor see Fingolfin approach, not at first.

After what seemed an eternity, the boy ( _No, not a boy, in his eightieth year, an adult, even if a very young one_ ) turned around. He froze, eyes widening as he saw Fingolfin standing there. Fingolfin's heart leapt into his throat.

He saw in Lómion primarily a mixture of Aredhel's features and his own; the two were in many respects the same thing, for Aredhel had strongly resembled her father. The nose, the mouth and the shape of the jaw were the same as hers. So too was the way Lómion stood very straight-backed, just barely restraining a need and desire for motion, movement. His eyes were as dark as glass on a moonless night, and not the pale silver-blue shade of his mother's but Fingolfin saw Aredhel in her son here as well. Lómion stared frankly at his grandfather, inquisitive and curious, eyes gleaming bright.

But there was a watchful wariness in his gaze that Fingolfin had never known in his daughter, and it was as though his heart was cracking all over again.

Lómion blinked the Sun out of his eyes, and after a few moments he seemed to remember himself and where he was, and who he was standing in front of. The child tried to bow, but before he could do much more than crane his head down Fingolfin folded him in a near-crushing embrace. "Oh, none of that."

He felt foolish. His grandson was stiff, tense, would not relax and clearly wanted him to let go of him. Fingolfin could imagine Lalwen laughing at him, and wished Fingon could have been here today, to say something that would have lightened the mood. But grief had a way of erasing cares about foolishness.

-0-0-0-

Fingolfin found himself quizzing Lómion about his life in Gondolin the way he used to quiz his children about their lessons. Did he like living there? How did he get on with Turgon and Idril? With the other members of the court? Every question Fingolfin thought of, he asked, sans one: _Do you miss your parents?_

Lómion gave vague, politely rote answers. He did not trust him, or perhaps he simply did not trust anyone with a heartfelt answer. There was nothing in the way he answered his grandfather's questions that Fingolfin could find fault with, but Fingolfin was all the same struck with the near-hysterical urge to take him by the shoulders and shake him. He quelled that urge. To say that it would be inappropriate would be a gross understatement. It would also do absolutely nothing for Lómion's wariness in the way he answered Fingolfin's questions.

Eventually, an empty silence yawned between them. Lómion stared down into the depths of the cup provided to him (he'd not taken so much as a gulp of the wine) as though he could see his past unfolding in there, his expression utterly inscrutable. Loose strands of his dark hair, fine and straight, not coarse and unruly like his mother's, fell over his pale face. The wind battered against the windows, letting out high, thin, forlorn wails.

Another question rose in Fingolfin's mind, and this one, though no less painful than the one he restrained, he could not keep from putting to the air. "Was she ever happy?" he asked desperately, feeling tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

The polite mask of Lómion's face fell and shattered in that moment. His brow drew up, deep lines furrowed in his forehead. His mouth formed an ambivalent, questioning line; the look in his eyes was deeply troubled.

"I… I'm not sure," he said softly, looking away.


End file.
